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The Grave of Körner.-Mrs. HEM'ANS.
CHARLES THEODORE KÖRNER, the young German poet and soldier, was
killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 26th of August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his most popular piece,“ The Sword Song.” He was buried under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory, beneath this tree, is of cast iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite emblem of Körner's, from which one of his works
had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for
his loss, having survived him only long enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines, “ Forget not the faithful dead."
GREEN wave the oak forever o'er thy rest!
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest :
Thou of the lyre and sword !
Here shall the child of after-years be led,
In the hushed presence of the glorious dead, -
With Freedom and with God.
The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite,
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee;
Wept as they vailed their drooping banners o'er thee ;
That lyre and sword were broken.
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
She pined to share thy grave.
The poems of Körner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by religious feeling, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany.
Fame was thy gift from others ;--but for her,
To whom the wide earth held that only spot,-
And in your early deaths divided not.
Her own blessed place by thee.
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky Ye were but two !—and, when that spirit passed,
Wo for the one, the last !
Wo:—yet not long :-she lingered but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast ;--Once, once again, to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. Too sad a smile !--its living light was o'er;
It answered hers no more!
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled : What, then, was left for her, the faithful-hearted ?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead-! Softly she perished. Be the flower deplored
Here, with the lyre and sword.
Have ye not met ere now? So let those trust,
That meet for moments but to part for years, That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dus
That love, where love is but a fount of tears ! Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye
dwell! Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell !
God's first Temples—A Hymn.-BRYANT.
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
Father, thy hand
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
My heart is awed within me, when I think
shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill With all the waters of the firmament, The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities ;—who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives.
Hymn of Nature.-PEABODY.
God of the earth's extended plains !
fields contented lie : The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might com'mune with the sky:
That lowers upon the vale below,
With joyous music in their flow.